


What Of It

by orphan_account



Series: Ship Amnesty Night [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin does not want for anything, Celegorm does not give it (and both of them lie).</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Of It

For years Curufinwë had looked down on the pursuits of those around his age; turned a disdainful cold shoulder to women who attempted to interest him, given pointed looks of contempt to his fellow apprentices who allowed themselves to be distracted by awkward, hot fumblings in one of the back rooms. It disturbed him, how they could all be distracted so casually, and especially to participate in such a… messy business.  
  
He also grew more and more irritable by the day, and the one to finally pinpoint the reason was Turcafinwë; he cornered him after they had both bathed, and interrogated him in regards to the things he had no time for.

  
  
"I have no want or wish to," Curufinwë snapped, finding his cheeks turning red, and looked away from Turcafinwë. "Just because you’re obsessed with it, Turko -"  
  
Turcafinwë puffed out his cheeks in annoyance, arms caging Curufinwë in against the wall of the room they sometimes shared. “It’s Tyelko. And no wonder you’ve been tense, idiot.”  
  
Curufinwë frowned. “If you think you’re going to convince me to - do anything because of your claims -“  
  
Turcafinwë rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to do it with someone,” he said sharply, and then “Drop your breeches.”  
  
So like Turko to do that; get bluntly to the heart of the problem. Looking back, Curufinwë was sure that if he’d merely been given instructions, he would have ignored them and pretended it hadn’t helped. But with Turcafinwë present, narrow-eyed with annoyance, he found himself following the orders he was given; to wrap his hand around his cock (still half-erect from the shock of temperature in the bath), to pull and stroke.  
  
Turcafinwë began to withdraw when Curufinwë’s mouth opened and the pleasure began to take hold; but Curufinwë’s free hand went up and clamped onto his arm, and he paused. The moment was strangely timeless, stretched like a strand of taffy by the liquid heat pooling within Curufinwë’s belly, down into his loins, as Turcafinwë asked “What is it?”  
  
He had no answer, except that he did not want to be alone with this strange weakening in his limbs, this utterly unexplored area of pleasure, and that it was convenient to have Turko’s arm as well as the wall to brace himself against as his muscles tighten unbearably. Sucking in breath, he leant his head against Turcafinwë’s shoulder.  
  
"Please - stay," he said, although he felt guiltily that this was far more indecent than Turko giving him a clinical glare and guiding his hand to his cock. He expected Turcafinwë to refuse, but instead he hesitated and then his body relaxed, his hands going to Curufinwë’s shoulders to brace him.  
  
"Don’t you mind?" was the only thing he asked, uncertainly, and Curufinwë was too far gone to care at that point.  
  
It was terrifying, the loss of control that came as he squeezed his eyes closed, his head pushing against Turko’s shoulder and his hips bucking involuntarily. For a few moments it was all he could concentrate on; the liquid feeling that shot through his cock, melted slowly out of his body and left him shaking with fearful pleasure, and he clung to Turcafinwë with both hands as it passed.  
  
As his ragged breath began to come more easily, Turcafinwë moved, stepping back a little. With a chill of shame, Curufinwë opened his eyes and realized that he had come while clinging to his brother; there was a white liquid dripping down the front of Turcafinwë’s tunic.  
  
"I -" he began, feeling a flush that would rival Moryofinwë’s rising to his face, but Turcafinwë cut him off.  
  
"It’s all right, Curvo," he said, reaching out to muss his hair, and there was sympathy in his eyes. "Just take care of yourself after this, all right? Then it won’t get this bad."  
  
They both changed their clothes, and Turko made it impossible for silence to grow between them; he laughed and talked and crawled late into bed the same as he always had, and Curufinwë wondered if it was only him that remembered, or that it had effected.  
  
He took care of his desires after that, but it simply seemed another kind of chore, one that held shameful memories; and Turcafinwë ran with Irissë and any other willing lover he could get his hands on, and never asked him about it.  
  
~  
  
The shame, the niggling worry attatched to the memory faded a little as events far more important fell into place on top of it. Cururfinwë, now become Curufin, gratefully buried what he did not understand under the harsher events that he did; their father’s death, the oath, the marking and holding of lands and the myriad problems that came with that - problems that obscured any dangerously personal issues he might have, like he might have stacked books and half-finished academic papers and blueprints on top of some confusing note he’d recieved back in Valinor.  
  
He almost welcomed the harsh pain, the danger and difficulty that came hard on the heels of the Sudden Flame. Almost - because although many whispered that the sons of Fëanor were mad, barred from normalacy permanently when they swore the Oath that bound them to their father, Curufin did not rejoice in death. Turcafinwë - who had settled their eternal struggle over his name by becoming Celegorm - might laugh in battle, but that was simply his way. And if Curufin punished those who carried such rumors, it was only necessary for discipline, and as much as he disliked losing control he assured himself that those who blamed his father for all that had passed deserved his wrath.  
  
But Celegorm was always there, the more stable of the two of them (Curufin has to admit that at least sometimes) even with his battle-thirst, to hold him back and, when they were out of sight of their followers, to stroke his hair and make soft noises until Curufin’s trembling stilled. That was what he hated most about losing control, no matter how pleasant it was at the moment to feel Celegorm’s arms tight around him; it brought all his damnably personal doubts and hungers to the surface, made his skin burn uncomfortably, and always ended with him pushing Celegorm off and declaring himself to not be an animal to be soothed.  
  
Celegorm never protested at being pushed away; just as he hadn’t protested at being held, at being asked to stay.  
  
Curufin thought, briefly, about drawing up the similarities and discrepencies of Celegorm’s behavior and making a thorough study of it, but he suspected that even that would turn out messy.  
  
The first rough notes he’d made were partially erased, the paper turned over and used for a rough map with possible routes scratched out on it; and Curufin put the matter to the back of his mind and began to bury it again.  
  
The long trek; the rescue of Orodreth; and, unexpectedly, Finrod.  
  
It was difficult, and messy in its own way, but it made putting the troublesome thoughts out of his head that much easier. He played a touch-and-go game with his cousin, staying as impersonable as he could while dropping by his private rooms at odd hours, and Finrod responded in kind; they prowled around each other like wolves seeking a weak spot, chipped at each other’s masks with spitefully honed non-compliments and carefully phrased ‘advice’.  
  
Celegorm seemed to loathe Nargothrond, straying out for days whenever it was possible - scouting, hunting, whatever excuse he could find he gladly siezed upon. Weaving Finrod’s hair between his fingers and cursing the stray thoughts that pushed their way into his head, Curufin assured himself that it was only natural behavior for his brother, to spend so much time in the field.  
  
  _Not since Atar’s death,_ an ugly voice whispered in his head, one that he couldn’t pretend wasn’t his own. _He’s stayed by your side, looked after you for so long. But how many times have you even spoken to him since you arrived in Nargothrond, outside of purely businesslike meetings?_  
  
Curufin pulled sharply on Finrod’s hair, bit down on his neck and prayed for his cry to drown out the thoughts in his head.  
  
_Strange that he’s taken no lover in all the time you’ve been here, isn’t it? Is it only because of Irissë, or something more?_  
  
Finrod gasped for breath, pulled back viciously at Curufin and brought him down; Curufin relished the sharp impact of his back against the floor, snarled back at Finrod and gasped as his cousin’s mouth skilfully closed around his cock.  
  
He ignored the clinical part of his mind that was observing that he was turning to the very thing he had thought uncomfortable in order to avoid his buried thoughts; ergo, the thoughts he was attempting to ignore were not concerned with the act in itself, but something closely entwined with it.  
  
It was tempting, sometimes, to wish that the Oath had truly taken his ability to think.  
  
~  
  
Finrod was gone; and slowly the reasons to keep separate from Celegorm began to drift away.  
  
They were both needed to persuade Orodreth of their ideas, and when his brother went out to hunt the wolves that had begun to infringe upon their lands (Celegorm already speaks of them as ‘their’ lands, with the angry furrow between his eyes that is reminiscent of their mother; so protective of what he chose to care about) Curufin found himself restless with Celebrimbor’s increasingly quiet company and the day-to-day unease of court life, and dressed in his plainer clothes.  
  
"I wish to accompany you," he said to Celegorm, the words coming out unusually awkward; there is something about Celegorm that strips the silver from his tongue, but his brother saved him from muddled thoughts of chemical reactions with an easy grin and cocked head, a "Get a horse, then," that made it sound like it was only yesterday they rode together. Huan rumbled softly, not quite a growl, and Curufin did not deign to look at him; he had no business with his brother’s dog, no matter how remarkable it was.  
  
Huan could not stop him from riding with Celegorm, he found himself thinking, with a flash of satisfying possessiveness that surprised him. The air was clean and chill, and conversation picked up quickly; Curufin looked out of the corner of his eye at Celegorm, tall and grinning and fair, and long-buried thoughts began to fill his head. He wondered why he had been afraid, and if perhaps…  
  
But when they stopped to rest, Huan tore off on some scent, and it was not an opportunity for them to finally talk without worry of being heard (as he had hoped, with the wind around them and Celegorm cursing softly but happily under his breath, raking his hair back into the rough braid that kept coming undone, and memories at bay for the moment). For Huan returned; and by his side there walked a young woman with a weary face, and before Curufin could even voice, bemused, _who is she?_ and _she resembles…_ he looked at Celegorm and saw the light in his eyes, and suddenly felt as if the warmth of a comforting fire had been snatched away from him.  
  
Celegorm suggested that they keep her with them while they sent the message to Thingol informing him of their displeasure. Curufin agreed that it only made sense (without actually agreeing to the thing itself, but Celegorm, usually so knowing of his moods, didn’t seem to notice). Celegorm kept on glancing after the corridor she had been taken down, and said that if Thingol wanted a Silmaril he should have bartered with someone who actually had a claim to them. Curufin answered that yes, that seemed reasonable. Celegorm made suggestions about the compostion of the letter, and for once Curufin took them; anger burned strangely black and hot behind his eyes, and he was in no mood to shield his brother from his own foolishness. Perhaps Thingol’s anger would make his brother see how undesirable his interest in the girl was.  
  
Celegorm insisted on visiting her almost every day, and not even Thingol’s reply seemed to dissuade him, nor Luthien’s continued rejection.  
  
Curufin considered keeping a record of days that he went and days he did not and trying to figure out what would keep him away most efficiently, with the least fuss; but long before he could put the plan into action his patience ran out, watching his brother cease to look at him, and on one quiet, painfully idyllic evening he closed the curtains in Celegorm’s room and called to him before he went out the door.  
  
"She is not Irissë."  
  
It was the messy way, he thought, and his heartbeat sped up as he saw how Celegorm froze, the tension strung through his shoulders; but he was glad, in the same way he had been glad for the battles, because something was happening at last.  
  
Celegorm turned on his heel, and for a moment his eyes sent a shiver of terror deep within Curufin’s chest; then the door-lock clicked and he was advancing, pushing Curufin back against the wall with the mere force of his spirit, the rage that flared out from him.  
  
"I… know she is not Irissë," he ground out, coming to a halt inches away from Curufin. "But she is all that there is, now, and something I never expected to gain, will you not let me try -"  
  
"All that there is," Curufin said, breath coming shallow with fear, now spiked with anger. "Am I nothing?"  
  
Celegorm’s eyes flickered away, his rage visibly dimming. “You know of what I speak.”  
  
Their proximity was bringing not-quite-unwelcome memories to mind; ripples of sensation, a comforting voice, a stain of white against a dark-blue tunic.  
  
"I know," Curufin said.  
  
He contemplated kissing him, but that seemed maudlin; instead he met his eyes squarely, and without a change of tone (he had to keep his voice from shaking) he said, “Take your clothes off, then.”  
  
It was not really his place to be giving Celegorm orders, not in this area, but judging by the look on Celegorm’s face that was the last thing on his brother’s mind. Curufin held his breath, and half-expected an angry demand of what he was thinking; because Celegorm has never seemed to need him in the way he silently and unshakeably needs Celegorm. Or perhaps he would ask about Finrod.  
  
Instead Celegorm’s hand rose to cup his cheek, and it trembled.  
  
"You really should not offer such things," Celegorm said, his voice low; but it was pained, and his eyes were bright, and Curufin felt a strange fluttering rush of relief and triumph and new fear.  
  
"Are we not damned already?" he asked, and reached out to the ties of Celegorm’s shirt. Celegorm caught his wrist, and kissed him; unsentimental and rough, but strangely tender (like everything about Celegorm, like the way he would mock his riding but support him so gently).  
  
Finally they broke, gasping as if the kiss had nearly drowned them, and Celegorm’s hand trembled slightly on Curufin’s wrist.  
  
"I should -" he said, his eyes flickering towards the door; there was a ghost of guilt in his eyes, and Curufin could practically read his thoughts out of his eyes. _Maedhros would never do something like this, if anyone found out, I should go, I should not -_  
  
Damned already, Curufin reminded himself, and twisted his wrist out of Celegorm’s grasp only to twine their fingers together.  
  
"Please stay," he said.  
  
Celegorm let out a low hiss of breath, closing his eyes.  
  
"There is nothing I can teach you," he said finally, although he did not try to pull away. "You can take care of yourself."  
  
The dimly-lit room seemed to magnify the silence that came next; Curufin searched frantically for words as the moment stretched out, his eyes tracing the shadows that danced across Celegorm’s face in the light of the lantern by the bed. He could take care of himself, he could; but wanting Celegorm to be close to him again was not a sign of being weak - and that brought him up short, because he could not think of a way to say it that did not sound pitiful. The younger brother he might be, but as Celegorm said there was nothing left he could teach him, there was nothing in truth that bound them together but their blood, the Oath they had spoken, and a choice for alliance that seemed to be becoming more frail with every passing day -  
  
"Are you crying?" Celegorm asked, his voice clear with shock in the quiet room.  
  
"No," Curufin forced out between his teeth; but Celegorm still cupped his chin in both hands (pulling one hand free from the tangle of Curufin’s fingers) and looked searchingly into his face. Memories surged into Curufin’s mind; that same casual handling and concered look when he had been bruised or scratched, and was trying to shrug it off the way his older brothers did.  
  
"No, you’re not," he agreed, his voice slow, "but you’re shaking." His thumb ran softly over the line of Curufin’s cheekbone; dark grey eyes narrowed in concern did not cease peering into Curufin’s. Curufin felt his breathing slow. Celegorm’s presence was involuntarily comforting, his scent and eyes and the support of his hands - and he could feel his cock stir. Eyes darting to the side, he made to move away.  
  
"Wait," Celegorm said, and Curufin stopped.  
  
It was only common politeness, after all. Celegorm had always stayed or not upon his request (although he had not expected Celegorm to ask the same of him, and his breath seemed to drag against a fluttering curtain in his throat, coming and going and almost stopping).  
  
"What do you want?" Celegorm asked; and there was tenderness in his voice now, reminescent of… _It’s all right, Curvo,_ Curufin heard in his mind, and his breath left his lungs in a long shuddering gasp.  
  
Celegorm, he observed for not the first time, made for fine support, as his hands twined into the rich material of his shirt.  
  
"I," he began, but could get no further words out (how could he admit want or need - for the question had never come up before, and admitting his desire would make him seem weak, selfish). Celegorm seemed to understand, though, looking down at him for another long moment before speaking, his tone firmer.  
  
"Well, then… take off your clothes."  
  
Curufin could have sobbed in relief.  
  
~  
  
Anything else that might have been planned is forgotten; someone knocks on the door once, timidly, and Celegorm merely covered Curufin’s mouth as he continued to thrust up into him, hips rolling easily and voice barely shaking as he called out.  
  
"We’re busy, don’t disturb us."  
  
"But, my lord -" the voice came through the door; Curufin bit down on Celegorm’s fingers to keep from screaming as he sunk down on Celegorm’s cock and it brushed the spot within him that left streaks of light across his vision, made him too maddened to even recognize the voice. Celegorm gasped, his eyes flicking up to meet Curufin’s and his lips shaping around a silent moan before he called out again, a little more breathless.  
  
"I’ll not warn you again!"  
  
The voice, whoever it was, left, and Celegorm let his hand fall from Curufin’s mouth; the sound of his panting breath, the small cries that Celegorm’s movement coaxed from him, spilled out into the air, and Celegorm groaned in earnest, letting his head fall back, hair across the pillow like seaweed on white sand.  
  
Curufin shut his eyes tightly against any darkness that might infringe on his mind; there was no time for that now. His unease seemed to be tangible to Celegorm, who pulled himself up on his elbows, inching his back up the headboard of the bed. Whimpering softly at the shift in position (the time out of Finrod’s bed had left him more sensitive than he remembered, and his brother was very, very skilled with hands and tongue and cock) Curufin moved with him, and allowed himself to be enfolded in an embrace.  
  
"Shh," Celegorm said in his ear, and rocked slightly; his cockhead rolled against the spot within Curufin again, and Curufin clenched his teeth, fingers digging into Celegorm’s arms as he fought the urge to beg for a rougher motion. "Just focus on me."  
  
And Curufin obeyed; moaning into the crook of Celegorm’s neck, he closed his eyes and breathed in the wet sweat-pungent scent of him. Hands so tight on his arms he thought he might leave bruises, he left the motion up to Celegorm; slow strokes of the cock within him, Celegorm’s hand wrapped firmly around Curufin’s aching cock, barely moving, the other hand caressing his back. It was maddening and comforting in one, and everything but sensation melted from Curufin’s mind; all but sensation and a memory.  
  
"Tyelko," he murmured, unsure of himself, and felt the twitch of Celegorm’s hips, heard the ragged quickening of his breath.  
  
The lantern-light was failing - or was the dimness only because he could not fully open his eyes anymore, too laden by the heavy, liquid feeling within his loins? Celegorm’s hand finally shifted, stroking his cock. It was rough and with little rhythm, but Curufin cried out, muffling it in Celegorm’s sweat-dampened hair, and felt the pleasure within him twisting down to a small point; he had imagined without daring to name who he imagined when he touched himself, before, but the reality was beyond compare.  
  
"Come on," Celegorm panted in his ear, "come for me, Curvo," and the world seemed to melt with the heat of his breath against Curufin’s ear. The point spread to a shivering web, thrills that shot through his cock as he thrust into Celegorm’s hand.  
  
This time his seed spilled against bare skin, with no danger of staining; and this time Celegorm’s hands tightened on his shoulder, moved to his hip and pulled him closer.  
  
Curufin shuddered against Celegorm as he watched him come; it was so intimate it should have terrified him, seeing the vulnerability in his exposed throat and closed eyes, but instead he found himself tracing the way Celegorm’s teeth bit into his lower lip with his fingers and whispering to him, half-nonsense that could have been summed up in fewer words, but words that were far harder to say.  
  
Someone might easily have heard Curufin’s cry, Celegorm’s loud groan. But Celegorm seemed to care for neither possibility; as he slowly opened his eyes, chest still heaving and hips barely stilled, the first thing he did was pull Curufin back to his chest.  
  
"Don’t go anywhere," he said, his voice slow with tiredness; Curufin let his head rest on his shoulder after a brief resistance.  
  
It was probably night anyway.  
  
And if the sons of Feanor chose to spend the night alone in one room, speaking of things that required the door locked, what of it?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] What Of It by Maure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274794) by [pumpkinpodfic (thegreatpumpkin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/pumpkinpodfic)




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